


Farewell Each One

by sithmarauder



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Blood and Injury, Brief Mentions of Austria/Hungary, Canon Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Historical Accuracy, Historical Hetalia, House of Habsburg, Introspection, M/M, Translation Available, warfare, way too many ring motifs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 11:17:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3808357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sithmarauder/pseuds/sithmarauder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So he takes off the ring and ties it around his neck to remind himself that nothing lasts forever, and that nothing is so hard as letting go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Farewell Each One

**Author's Note:**

> Translation into Deutsch available: [Einem jeden Lebwohl](http://www.fanfiktion.de/s/55e5b7eb000418401cfaec38/5/Haus-Habsburg-Casa-de-Austria) by [Kate_Marley](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Marley).
> 
> I wrote this at one in the morning when I was supposed to be studying for historiography. In my defence, it sort of counts as studying? Not really? I’m pretty sure I write all of my historical Spain/Austria fics when I’m supposed to be studying. Anyway, this is just a little historical fic that generally gives a glossy overview of Austria’s marriage to Spain, because an in-depth one would’ve taken me ten years and the sacrifice of my firstborn child. This is present tense for some reason I probably justified at two in the morning.
> 
> Due to the time periods covered there are, of course, imperial undertones and glorification of empire, etc, all things typical for the times. Also gratuitous use of really unsubtle symbolism and allusions to both individual battles and drawn-out wars.

> "Now bring down your fortress and swallow your pride  
>  Don't break in your moments of ignorance  
>  Existence will capture a spark of life  
>  Just a fragment, but it's all that I will ever need to revive"
> 
> \- _Veil of Elysium_ , Kamelot

            Spain first gives him the ring as they stand at the precipice of the world, where a step to the west means they’ll plunge into the unforgiving sea and a step to the east means walking into the oncoming might of the advancing Ottoman army. They step to the east anyway, clashing as Vienna strains and groans under the weight of a prolonged assault, but when the dust clears and the only remnants of the Ottomans are the smell of death and the bloodied tang of Suleiman’s defeat Austria quirks an eyebrow at Spain, filthy and bruised, and asks if he needs anything else from him.

            Spain’s laughter fills the skeleton of the city, his green eyes wild and bright with a victory he can scarcely believe (a victory that is Austria’s, not his, but any victory of Austria’s is a shared victory now, just like Spain’s). The scars and bruises criss-crossing his body are a map of his own battles with the advancing Ottomans of the east, and Austria has seen them enough times (has enough of them himself) to know just how many of them are from battles lost.

            They’re the golden children of Europe, the heads of a vast empire that stretches across numerous lands and encompasses vast territories. They are never truly one, for in the minds of others they are still _the Spanish Empire_ and the _Archduchy of Austria_ , never the Austro-Spanish Empire, never the Kingdom of Spain-Austria, but the mantle of the Holy Roman Empire blankets them both all the same, and they use it to smother all in their path.

            They grow up doing this, going from young things with wary faces to shadowed beings that drag the weight of their successes and their failures behind them. Under Austria’s roof three (four) children thrive, then two (three, but Hungary has never been a child, not amongst them), and maybe they think him cruel, maybe they think him hard, but if he opens the doors and leaves them to fend for themselves they will find out just how hard and cruel the world can be and they will crumble and _fall_ so he keeps them close, keeps them safe, as much for his own sake as for theirs. Spain is there, of course, with the third child in his keeping, and ever-present is the sunny smile on his face and the shadows that lurk in the cracks of it, the ones everyone seem to forget about until Spain is standing over them, blood on his face and in his hands, shining like the pagan god Apollo has pulled him up from the ground.

            Austria doesn’t fear this being, though of course he should. But the Habsburg ring burns an impression into his finger and he looks straight at the darkness, sees Spain for what he is, and is accepted in turn. He wonders if Spain seems something in him worth fearing and respecting, and wonders if this is why Spain has his tender moments, moments where the two of them simply sit and relax and _exist_ and ignore the baiting words of France and the Ottoman Empire as they do their best to bring the empire down around their ears. When Austria bests the Ottomans for a second time he holds the other empire’s gaze with unwavering steel in his spine and in his eyes, and he wonders if the Ottoman Empire sees what Spain always sees as his eyes widen behind his mask and he turns away.

            That night Austria watches as Spain kisses the inside of his wrist, running his hands reverently over the bandages covering wounds that will soon heal, and offers no words in response to the burning fire in Spain’s green gaze. He presses his lips lightly to Spain’s forehead, the skin hot against his own, a silent response to the benediction Spain seeks, and thinks he could live this moment forever.

            Nations are indefinitely complicated things, though, and his wish, in the end, is twisted into a mockery of events that shake him to his very core and leaves him feeling like part of his very being has been torn from him, even though he knows he is as whole as ever. The bewitched unwittingly curse the land and he loses Spain to something that has plagued his house since before Charles V ascended to the throne of all of Europe, and it isn’t until after he’s faced Spain on the battlefield, blood smeared across his vision from his fight with France and Bavaria, that he realises the Habsburg ring is still on his finger, burning an impression into the skin.

            So he takes off the ring and ties it around his neck to remind himself that nothing lasts forever, and that nothing is so hard as letting go.

            When Spain betrays him to side with the fool nation Prussia, his bitter enemy France standing at his side, Austria stands firm and unwavering, every inch the empire he was born to be, the empire he has been _with and without Spain_. He is no Austrian Empire, no, but everyone knows the nucleus of Holy Rome, and they know he is not someone to be trifled with lightly. Steel is in his blood and a sense of complacency and pride war within his heart, and even though Prussia defeats him he refuses to remain lying in the dirt, fighting a war he hadn’t wanted. Requesting the aid of others is not a weakness, so while he is shocked at the level of violence Hungary is able to inflict, enough for his mask to drop, part of him is glad, and he allows himself to feel muted affection for an old friend.

            When he next meets Spain’s steady gaze across a gilded room he sees a wary appreciation and darkness that gives way to a bitter longing. He keeps his own face a mask, cold and unbreakable, and misses the faint smile Spain directs at him when his back is turned.

            Against his skin the ring burns until he thinks it will claw its way to his very heart.

            There are other wars after that, of course. Austria clashes with Prussia more bitterly than he ever did with France, and he sees in the other nation’s red eyes a need to drag him down and a constant challenge, one he meets by absolutely refusing to stay down, by getting up each and every time Prussia pushes him and watching the rage unfold in Prussia’s pale face like a personal triumph. He supposes it is, and when he next sees Spain the man steps into the empty place at his side like he’d never left, pressing a fleeting hand over Austria’s heart—over the ring. He says something about fiery birds before departing, and Austria watches him go with little more than a measured look.

            The fact that he still bears the ring speaks more than anything else he could ever say.

            When the Holy Roman Empire falls, _that_ is the wound, something that tears at Austria like nothing before. With the mantle torn from his shoulders and his house free of everything but his own footsteps he feels not free but even more encumbered, like Napoleon had replaced ermine with stone. The Archduchy of Austria is gone, though, and Austria takes that stone and polishes it until it shines like a cloak of brilliant diamonds, and with this the Austrian Empire steps into the sunlight once again. France’s face is a scowl disguised as a charming smile, his own weakness like a gaping wound in a still-healing scar; Prussia’s disdain shines openly on his face, mixed with something Austria knows but ignores; and Spain, Spain watches him like he always has, with darkness and light and a knowledge that no one else possesses. There is another nation too, a boy with familiar eyes and familiar hair but who is not the same, no, and for awhile Prussia’s face almost mirrors Spain’s when he looks at Austria, and they cease fighting long enough to find something new to war over.

            When he marries Hungary there is a new ring on his finger, but it feels like no time at all before this ring is pulled from him as well, and he keeps it locked away in a gilded box, occasionally taking it out and slipping it on a finger of his right hand. The Habsburg ring remains, a reminder, a lesson he learned well. It burns as fiercely as ever.

            Empire changes after that, and war changes with it. Battles haven’t been fought with swords and armour for a long time but gone, too, are the days of lining up nicely on a field in coloured uniform and shooting until one side had more piled-up bodies to fire over. This new trench warfare is bloody and invasive, and the boy-who-is-no-longer-a-boy fights bitterly at his side, then shoulders the blame for the entire thing once it’s all said and done, a punishment from France for centuries past. Years later, when the earth has been healed over, Austria watches that boy with quiet consideration, and he sees something of himself in Germany as he watches the man-who-was-boy continue to stand and rebuild himself even as the world directs its hatred against him, justified and not. Austria himself is not nearly as strong as he once was, tiring easily, but Germany never complains, and Austria is Austria. He sips tea instead of defending Vienna, he plays music instead of fighting battles, but the steel is still there and when Spain’s smooth voice speaks to him at the end of a conference the dark edge is still in his eyes, and he sees what Spain sees and is not necessarily pleased, but he makes do.

            When the ring burns against his chest this time it is without the ferocity Austria had once been accustomed to, and when Spain slips the black silk over Austria’s head and simply looks at it for a moment Austria lets him, brow slightly furrowed, but understanding. He says nothing when Spain carefully places the ring in a small velvet-lined box on the bedside table, does not comment when he sees another glint of gold already present. He simply lets it go and allows Spain to kiss him, and he wonders if the ring will ever feel like fire again, if the brand of the Habsburg legacy will fade from his skin in time.

            In the wake of Spain’s whispered words against his flesh he allows these thoughts to slip away like cooling ashes, and when he rises next it is to familiar green eyes and a knowing look, an end where there was once a beginning, and a beginning where there is now an end. He sees what Spain sees and allows Spain to see himself in return, and the sun shines in like God has awoken the pagan gods from their slumber. When he slips the black silk around his neck the metal of the ring is cold against his body, but he doesn’t dwell, merely holds one hand out to Spain, who takes it with a chuckle and a sigh.

            This time they step to the west, and when the dust clears and the sun sets, it feels like a welcome home.

**Author's Note:**

> Some events alluded to/included are:  
> \- 1529 Siege of Vienna, which halted the advancement of Suleiman the Magnificent’s army.  
> \- Though married in canon, it’s worth noting that Spain and Austria were never “one” country.  
> \- 1683 Battle of Vienna, which marked the beginning of Habsburg political hegemony  
> \- “The bewitched” refers to Carlos/Charles II, the last Habsburg ruler of Spain. Heavily impaired by generations of inbreeding (which is also referred to) he died without heir, which started the War of the Spanish Succession as Austria, France, and Bavaria attempted to partition the empire between their respective houses.  
> \- Other wars alluded to are: The War of the Austrian Succession, the Napoleonic Wars, and the Austro-Prussian War, as well as the interim period as Austria and Prussia essentially initially raised Germany together before “divorcing” and fighting for custody (Prussia won).  
> \- There are other little things slipped in as well so if you can catch them, kudos!


End file.
